Road Queen #30

She dropped the dress. Wore nothing but a silk thong that slipped sideways when she sat on the bed. Eyes drifted up my zipper line, bold as cheap whiskey. August 8th, 2014, made our first night ours. Burned months of it behind us—mixer room dances turned bathtub handjobs, sticky fingertips, no apologies. She grabbed my belt. Yanked. Pulled hard. Skin slid flush against skin. Lips trailing coffee-cigarette breath, teeth nipping corners she liked to test. The thong string dragged down my cock. Wet glide right to the knot. I slammed my palm between her thighs. Punished heat already soaked through. Her hip rolled, dared me to slip deeper, and I did. Two fingers, no prelude, knuckle-deep on a crooked grin. She breathed my name like a canceled debt. Pulled hard against the arm I pinned behind her. Legs buckled open—film reel shutter, grind again. Snapshot memory that belonged nowhere near polite hours. Her cunt squeezed back like a fistfight. I gave it rhythm, pushed her heels out wider, heard the short gasp that meant 'finish now.' Ribbed sheets stuck to her back. The silk bit red marks across her clit each time her back jerked up. Every thrust ended with three quick revolutions of my thumb; she broke one moan—folded into a snarled, don’t stop. Curtains stayed open. City heat slammed the railings below. Sweat stung my teeth and she laughed at it. Dead lines between the moans spelled names we weren’t allowed. Sharp teeth found my earlobe, twisted, held—perpetual between-words. Nothing tender. Bedroom black except the ragged strobe of hotel amber through the blinds. Her heel slid into the cushion behind me—ride, shatter, everything stripped raw. Light skin on darker ink. Come already slick where the thong twisted aside again. Still August eighth. Three years later, the burn hadn’t lost its teeth.